Howls the rough wind, till in the common ground
They end the life which is—and yet is not,—
A riddle where no meaning shall be found.
[THE LOVE OF THE ROSE]
Trilled forth the Nightingale
In sweetest sleep of day—
Unto his love, the rose,
Ah golden heart, unclose!
For love, my fairest rose, will last for aye.
So, thro' the waning night